Sweet Home, Rouge City
by Delia Soul
Summary: "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" fic. A teenager talks about his home sweet home, Rouge City.


  
  
  
  
  
It's a typical Tuesday night in Rouge City. It's around three in the morning, and I really should be in bed, but I'm not. Well, okay, technically I am, but I'm not asleep. I don't like sleeping, it's a waste of time and I don't like the feeling that I've spent half my life in a coma. It's stupid.  
Most of the people here don't sleep. That's cos they aren't people. Oh, sure, there's a healthy Orga population-- 500,000 at the last census, and that doesn't count the homeless and the businessmen that rent places here for a quick fuck every few weeks. People come in with the seasons, like this is a Goddamned _resort_ or something. Like they come here for the scenery, or to sample the fine restaurants and shops. Give me a Goddamn break. They come like the regular tourists, for one reason-- to get laid.   
And there's plenty of opportunity for that, my friends, believe me. You can't walk a Goddamned block in this city without a neon light proclaiming live nude girls, or boy-toys for hire. I mean, this place is a fucking _madhouse_, man, it really is, full of horny people and Mechas that are more than willing to encourage them. I mean, they all pander to the tourists, of course. It's a sad state of affairs, but I have to admit that everyone I know, all my friends, are still virgins. I mean, here we are, a bunch of seventeen, eighteen-year-old guys, and we still haven't got it over with. You'd think that we'd have been getting it on like jackrabbits since we could fucking _crawl_, but that's not the case. I think maybe it has something to do with sensory overload. When you're surrounded constantly by all this sex, there's nothing that you want _least_ in life.   
I mean, seriously. I've seen enough people get it on in this city that frankly, I don't want to have anything to do with it. No, you bastards, I'm not a fucking _voyeur_. I don't train a pair of Goddamn binoculars into people's windows and eat a bowl of popcorn. That's sick, and I'm not a pervert. But the people here are fucking _shameless_, man, let me tell you. I once saw a couple doing it on a traffic island, I swear to God. I wouldn't make that up. And it's like, nobody cares. I mean, cars were just driving on by while these people were fucking next to the stop sign. In any other Goddamn city, they would have got their asses thrown in jail, but that doesn't happen here. Everyone's so used to it that nobody cares anymore.   
I mean, not to say that some people don't want discretion, and that's where the alleyways come in handy. My room is right over one, and Jesus Christ, what a freak show I fall asleep to every night. I know that I really shouldn't be watching other people's private shit, but it's kinda hard to fall asleep with that Goddamn _groaning_ coming up every night, so what the Hell else should I do? And, anyway, if they didn't want to get looked at, they should rent a Goddamned room. Seriously.   
There's this one guy I see all the time, Charlie I call him, and God, what a story that fucker's got. He looks like a Goddamned prune and he wears these crappy polyester suits that are printed like tweed. They even have fucking _elbow patches. _He likes to think he's all high-class and shit, but I only see him with Orga hookers, and there is no form of life that comes cheaper in Rouge City than an Orga hooker. You can always tell if a hooker's Orga or not, because they always look glazed over, like someone's hit them repeatedly in the face with a fish. They're all strung out of Red Angel, which is some of the most noxious shit you could ever shoot into your veins. I tried it _once_, and I swear to God I spent the entire night puking my guts out and thinking my head was going to explode. I don't know why people get stuck on it, but when they do, they make that 20th Century guitar player, Keith Richards, look like a Goddamn picture of health.  
Charlie isn't the only son-of-a-bitch that likes to do his business under my Goddamn window. There's this other guy, I'll call him Jerry, and he's a real sick bastard. All day he's the pastor of a fucking _church_ in Haddonfield, and he's got this picture-perfect family and does charity runs and bemoans the state of the world. Then, at night, he hops into his little Biblemobile and goes across the Delaware, where he proceeds to fuck every Mecha hustler that catches his eye. What, you don't believe me? Look outside my window, for Christ's sake, he's out there right now. It's funny to think that he stands behind God on Sunday when I know exactly who he stood behind Saturday. I don't even think he pays very well. He's a real tightass in more ways than one.   
I hate this Goddamn city. I've been told that it's gone downhill in the past twenty years, but I can't imagine it ever being good in the first place. It's shallow, corrupt, oversexed, and dangerous. And it's my home. Oh, wonderful for me. I'm so thrilled. I can't wait until I get out of school, and I can get the fuck out of here. I don't know who invented this place, but I wish them a painful, long death. I mean, I'm not being harsh or anything...it's a great place to visit, sure, but you sure as Hell don't want to live here. It's like living in an x-rated Disneyland. Eventually, you get sick to Hell of Mickey.  
Fuck, I'm being philosophical again. I hate it when that happens.  
Goodnight, shithole of the world. I hope you fucking rot. 


End file.
